


Love to Say I Told You So

by LoveKhaleesi



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-15 05:53:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7210595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveKhaleesi/pseuds/LoveKhaleesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well, are you thinking about falling in love with me right now?”</p><p>“No?” Enjolras tries. “But then again I’m not  thinking about much of anything right now besides how to get more coffee out of you, so–”</p><p>“Exactly,” Grantaire says cheerfully. “It’s the perfect plan.”</p><p>Enjolras snorts. “I really don’t think <i>let’s not fall in love with each other</i> counts as any plan whatsoever, let alone a perfect one.”</p><p>(In which Enjolras blames Grantaire, Grantaire blames Enjolras, and Courfeyrac never lets them live it down.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tears_of_nienna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tears_of_nienna/gifts).



> About a gazillion years ago, I did a fic giveaway and [The Librarina](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tears_of_nienna/pseuds/The%20Librarina) won a 1k fic. This happened, instead. Betaed by Ani and Anthony.

Courfeyrac is actually, physically buzzing with excitement. Grantaire didn’t know it was possibly for anyone who’s not a cartoon character to _literally_ buzz with excitement, but considering it’s Courfeyrac, Grantaire probably shouldn’t be surprised. _Cartoon character_ is as apt a way as any to describe Courfeyrac, right down to the huge, ridiculous anime eyes.

The huge, ridiculous anime eyes that he uses on Grantaire to get him to do the dishes whenever the sink threatens to develop a biosystem of its own.

That _bastard_.

“No,” Grantaire says immediately, brandishing the pen he’d been doodling with like a–well, like a pen. There’s not really a lot of threatening things one can do with a pen, not unless one really wants to get creative, and Grantaire is far too comfortable sprawling out on their couch to come up with clever, creative ways to threaten bodily harm on Courfeyrac.

“I didn’t even say anything,” Courfeyrac says, sounding wounded.

Letting him say anything would be Grantaire’s first mistake. That’s how Courfeyrac gets ideas, and how Grantaire ends up with his bed covered in glitter because _someone_ decided his bedroom was the perfect place to try glitter hair spray.

“No.”

Courfeyrac’s lip wobbles.

“Fucking Hell,” Grantaire whines. It’s like having a dog all over again.

Courfeyrac pouts, just a little. His eyes go even wider.

The buzzing, Grantaire notes, still hasn’t stopped. He lets out a long suffering sigh. Six months of having the guy as his roommate have taught Grantaire that excitement is pretty much just his natural state. Even in the mornings. Even before any caffeine has entered his system. Even after Grantaire tried an exorcism, just to be sure. It was a waste of time–the exorcism only made Courfeyrac laugh. And then whine because Grantaire had messed up his hair.

Grantaire still counts that one as a win.

The point is, though, this isn’t a kind of excitement he’s familiar with. He’s developed a scale by now, raging from ‘you got me gum???’ to ‘oh my god there’s going to be a Spice Girls reunion oh my god oh my god’. Granted, the latter hasn’t happened yet, but Grantaire fears it’s only a matter of time until it does, and he’s all too aware what Courfeyrac’s reaction would be.

Grantaire wonders, vaguely, if he could build a panic room without Courfeyrac noticing. Probably not.

Bummer.

“What’s happening?” he asks, tossing his pen and his notebook towards the coffee table. He’s probably done with those, if the way Courfeyrac’s shoulders are still vibrating is anything to go by.

“Combeferre’s coming home today,” Courfeyrac practically shrieks, looking for a moment as if he’s going to swoon, and then he _does_ swoon, throwing himself dramatically down at the empty space besides Grantaire on the couch.

Oh, thank God. Combeferre, the once and future boyfriend spending a semester abroad that Courfeyrac hasn’t shut up about since Grantaire moved in. Not that Courfeyrac ever shuts up about anything. He’s just a lot more talkative about Combeferre than he is about anything else, and God knows that’s saying a lot.

Grantaire’s heard enough about the guy to believe he has a pretty good grasp on him. He seems like a pretty decent dude, overall–and, more importantly, he’s someone whose job it actually is to put up with Courfeyrac whenever he needs more attention than he’s getting.

“Oh man, that’s wonderful,” Grantaire says, and if it sounds like he’s a little more excited at the prospect of Courfeyrac’s boyfriend returning than he should be, well. It’s hardly as if Courfeyrac will notice.

He loves Courfeyrac, he really does. He’s just _exhausting_ sometimes. Grantaire has no idea how Combeferre does it. Red Bull through an IV, perhaps? But then again, Grantaire has no idea how Courfeyrac does it either. They only met six months ago, when Grantaire moved in, but Grantaire feels like he’s known him for years.  Courfeyrac is kind and warm and funny and a really great roommate overall and even though Grantaire will never say this within his hearing, he gives really great hugs (you have to throw your back into it properly, that’s the secret), even though he always smells vaguely of cotton candy, which would usually be pretty ridiculous for anyone older than six, but considering it’s Courfeyrac it makes all the sense in the word.

“Isn’t it?” Courfeyrac says happily. “Anyway, that’s actually–I have a favor to ask.”

The lip wobbles might be about to return. Lord help him.

Grantaire shouldn’t ask. He really, really shouldn’t ask. He should get up and hide in the bathroom until Courfeyrac stops needing favors. Curse the couch for being comfortable. Curse inertia. Curse Newton,  while he’s at it. “Yes?” he asks instead, like the big idiot he is.

“I need a ride.” Courfeyrac looks up hopefully.

“What time does the flight get in?”

“Time is so relative, don’t you think?” Courfeyrac babbles. “One minute it’s the middle of the afternoon and then you look up at your clock and look at that, it’s morning again. Where did the time go? Look outside. It is cold and February. Give it enough time and it will be warm and May. Is there like a Room of Requirement where time goes to hide and–”

“Courfeyrac.”

“5 in the morning?” Courfeyrac replies, avoiding Grantaire’s eye.

“And you can’t take a cab to go pick him up because…?”

Courfeyrac, bless him, actually has the grace to blush. Grantaire never thought he’d live to see the day.

“You want to make out in peace, don’t you?”

“Yes?” Courfeyrac shrugs. Now that the game is up, he’s determined to play it through. Grantaire respects that about him. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to go six months without getting laid? That’s really–”

“I know for a fact you got laid,” Grantaire reminds him. Nothing like walking your living room in the middle of the day to your roommate having cyber sex with his boyfriend to know he got laid. Nothing at all. Grantaire needs both eye bleach and a priest.

“That.” He waves a hand. “You had class. My room got bad lighting.”

“Bad lighting oh my god,” Grantaire whines. “You’re having sex through the internet with your boyfriend, not starring in Busty Babes 5.”

“I could so stare in Busty Babes 5,” Courfeyrac replies immediately, sounding wounded.

“Courfeyrac,” Grantaire says. He looks down at his watch. Midnight. Paris is cold at midnight. It’ll be even colder at 5AM. He regrets ever moving in with Courfeyrac. (Well, that’s a lie.) “You have no bust to speak of.”

“I could have a bust if I wanted to. There’s push up bras and–stuff.”

What is even Grantaire’s life that this is a conversation he’s having? Why is he discussing his roommate’s non existent bust in the middle of the night, all too aware he’s going to give in to whatever Courfeyrac wants, probably sooner rather than later? Why is this his life?

“Fine, I’ll drive you,” he relents, like they both knew he would, because God knows it’s the only way to get Courfeyrac to stop talking about his non-existent bust. “You’re going to owe me breakfast in bed for, like, a month.”

Courfeyrac grins, and reaches up to pat his knee. “I’m going to make you so many waffles you’re going to name your firstborn after me. And after those waffles. Courfeyrac Waffle. Has a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“Dude, you are _so_ weird,” Grantaire says, shaking his head.

Courfeyrac doesn’t even have the decency to shrug. “And yet you moved in with me anyway,” he points out.

“In my defense, I had no idea how weird you’d turn out to be.”

“Didn’t I open the door wearing a Powerpuff Girls apron and a feather boa the first time we met?”

Grantaire shudders. “I tried to block that out of my mind. Why _was_ there a boa, do you remember? Or did you just feel like it?”

“Well, in Enjolras’ goodbye party–” Courfeyrac pauses, blinking thoughtfully up at Grantaire. “Nevermind that. I was hoping we could talk about Enjolras?”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I’m sorry, please bear with me,” Courfeyrac says, and if he sounded excited before he sounds positively giddy now. Nothing good will come out of it, Grantaire is certain. “It’s just–I’ve been waiting a long time for this. Do you know what’s the worst part about dating one of your best friends? And dating one of your best friends while your other best friend has the dating life of a very pious nun?”

“As opposed to having the dating life of a very slutty nun?”

“Man, that’d be a cool band name,”  Courfeyrac says, momentarily distracted. “Wait, no. I mean, yes, but no, I’m not talking about bands right now. The thing is–I’ve never given anyone the ‘you hurt him and I hurt you’ speech.’” He seems way too happy about the possibility of giving that speech now to have any hope of coming across as threatening, though Grantaire supposes it’s the thought that counts. Maybe. It’s hard to be sure with Courfeyrac. At least there’s no glitter yet, something for which Grantaire is endlessly grateful.

“Do you _need_ to give someone a ‘you hurt him and I hurt you’ speech?” Grantaire asks, ever the voice of reason.

“It sounds badass,” Courfeyrac says, very seriously. “I tried giving it to myself when I first started dating Combeferre, but it wasn’t that effective, considering. I already knew my intentions.”

It’s oddly endearing, to imagine a teenage Courfeyrac giving himself a threatening speech on how to properly treat his boyfriend. Grantaire pushes the treacherous feeling away as hard as he can. Endearing Grantaire with his ridiculousness is how Courfeyrac gets him to be out of the bed at 5AM so he can go meet his boyfriend at the airport.

“Look, Courfeyrac–”

“No, really, let me finish.” Courfeyrac barrels on. “So. I love you like a brother, but Enjolras literally is my brother–well, not _literally_ literally, but close enough that it makes no matter–and I think you can be really great for each other, but I’m still his best friend, and as his best friend it’s my job to tell you that if you hurt him, I hurt you. Got it?”

“Courfeyrac–”

“Got it?”

“Courf–”

“ _Got it?”_

Grantaire relents. “Fine.” It’s easier to just go along with Courfeyrac sometimes. Kind of like how you should swim with the current, rather than against it.  

Courfeyrac shoots him a grateful smile. “Thank you. God, you have no idea how good giving that speech feels. I’d have tried giving it to Cosette when she started dating Marius, but–well, you’ve met Cosette, there’s no way I could hurt her. Partially because she’s cute, but mostly because I’m pretty sure she could put me in the ground without breaking a sweat.”

This is ridiculous. Of all the ridiculous Courfeyrac things he’s been subjected to lately, this is by far the most ridiculous.

“Courfeyrac.”

“Yeah?”

“You do realize,” Grantaire says slowly, “that I’ve never _met_ Enjolras.”

Kind of hard to, when said Enjolras was gallivanting around Lisbon with Combeferre. Or wherever else it was. It’s so hard to keep track of the whereabouts of people he’s never met and couldn’t care less about.

Courfeyrac shrugs. “You’ll meet him soon enough.”

“Yes,” Grantaire agrees. “Do you give this speech to anyone who meets him? Because unless you have a crystal ball and a time machine, I’m pretty sure that’s impossible on, like, three different levels.”

“You think he’s hot, don’t you?” Courfeyrac says pointedly.

What’s Grantaire supposed to say to that? He’s seen pictures on Facebook, Courfeyrac arm-in-arm with a tall man he’s come to identify as Combeferre and someone with a spectacular head of blond curls that looks even messier than his usually does. A very attractive someone with a spectacular head of blond curls that looks even messier than his usually does, if he’s being honest with himself–and he does try to be honest with himself, though not so much with Courfeyrac. Easier for all those involved that way. But what of it? From everything he’s heard about the guy–and he’s heard a lot, because whenever Courfeyrac isn’t babbling about Combeferre he’s almost definitely babbling about Enjolras–he is very far from being his type. Grantaire’s type is a little messed up, a little dangerous, a lot bad for him. Enjolras is the type of naive-wide eyed person who still thinks he can save the world by shouting at it.

To be fair, so’s Courfeyrac, but Grantaire tries not to hold it against him. Not that he’s holding it against Enjolras, but he knows what he can take and what he likes when it comes to romantic entanglements and _self-righteously hot_ is not it,

“Yes, I think he’s hot,” Grantaire concedes. “I have eyes. Doesn’t mean I’m going to like the guy, or want to bend him over the nearest flat surface. I mean, I think you’re hot too, and you couldn’t pay me enough money to fuck you, and it’s only partially because I’m afraid of dying from glitter poisoning.”

“Oh, you shameless flatterer,” Courfeyrac says, fluttering his eyebrows dramatically. “Were I unwed, I would take you in a manly fashion.”

Grantaire pokes him with a sock-clad toe, just on principle. “Because I’m pretty?” he can’t help but ask.

“Because you’re pretty,” Courfeyrac agrees, very seriously. “But, alas for Combeferre. Enjolras, however–”

“–is not my type,” Grantaire finishes for him.

“You haven’t even met him,” Courfeyrac protests. “Trust me, I have a third sense for these things.”

“Pretty sure that’s a sixth sense, Courf.”

“No.” Courfeyrac frowns. “It takes precedence over the other three. Senses one and two are taste and feel, third is matchmaking, fourth is–”

“You are so ridiculous, oh my god.”

“I am.” Courfeyrac agrees. Good man. Very self-aware. Grantaire likes that about him. “But you’re still going to fall in love.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, but I am.” There is an evil glint in Courfeyrac’s eye that Grantaire really wants to never see directed at him again.

“Say, just how serious are you?” he asks innocently, an idea forming. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. He _will_ , but he really shouldn’t.

“Oh, the most serious. I am the most serious person to ever serious,” Courfeyrac says, walking right into it.

“500 euros serious?” Grantaire asks.

“I don’t have 500 euros,” Courfeyrac points out. “ _You_ don’t have 500 euros.”

“But if you’re so sure we’re going to fall in love, that’s my problem, not yours. It is a third sense of yours, after all,” Grantaire says helpfully. “Bet?”

“Fine,” Courfeyrac concedes. Ah, sweet victory. The easiest 500 euros he ever made. “You’re going to fall in love _so_ fast and have disgusting fat babies together.”

Grantaire sits up, shakes one of Courfeyrac’s hands. “You’re on.”

Courfeyrac looks far too smug for a man about to lose 500 euros.

—

Well, he likes Combeferre.

Not that he wasn’t expecting not to like Combeferre. Courfeyrac’s friends tend to be good people, even if a little overexcitable at times (case in point: Marius Pontmercy). He’s just not exactly what he was expecting from Courfeyrac’s boyfriend of an unnaturally long time. Combeferre is–well, really, the best word for it is _normal_ , even if in a huge nerd sort of way. Grantaire was expecting glitter and pink hair. Combeferre has straight hair, a sweater vest and looks just like the type who knows pi to a hundred places.

Grantaire stays in the car at the airport, thankfully spares himself the ridiculous over the top big reunion, Courfeyrac climbs into the backseat soon enough, lets Combeferre take the passenger’s seat. “Hi,” Combeferre greets tiredly. Flying in the middle of the night will do that to a man. Otherwise, he looks just like in the pictures. Cute, in a nerdish sort of way. “Hey, I’m Combeferre.”

“Hey. Heard a lot about you,” Grantaire grins at him, pulling away from the curb. “Courfeyrac had a lot of things to say about–”

“–about you and Enjolras, yes. Speaking of, where _is_ our favorite blond?” Courfeyrac looks around suspiciously, as if Grantaire is hiding him under his seat. “Have we lost him since the airport?”

Combeferre sends him a look of pure disbelief, before chuckling. “He wasn’t at the airport,” he explains, shaking his hand fondly at Courfeyrac through the rearview mirror. “He–er. Might’ve missed the plane. Someone had just engaged him on a conversation in the merits of austerity measures. You know how he gets,” he says, in an all encompassing gesture that could mean anything at all.

Apparently, it makes sense to Courfeyrac, since he only nods. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Should I count myself lucky you decided coming back was more important than arguing about the merits of austerity with some poor Portuguese person?”

Combeferre ducks his head, and through the corner of his eye Grantaire can see a shy smile dancing on his face. “I wanted to see you,” he says simply.

Courfeyrac coos in the backset.

Grantaire makes a loud gagging noise.

Combeferre goes absolutely still beside him, not even the memory of a smile on his face. “Is that a problem, that we’re together or–”

“Oh, dude, no, _no_ ,” Grantaire says, understanding the problem immediately. “No, that’s–no. Trust me, no. You think I–no. Really. Like, I get it, I’ve sucked many a cock in my day, but–”

“How many cocks is ‘many a cock?” Courfeyrac asks curiously from the backset.

Grantaire considers this. “Three and half,” he says after a beat.

“And a half?” Combeferre frowns. “How can it be three and a half?”

“Some boys are a little luckier than others in some departments,” Grantaire says primly.

“I know exactly what you mean,” Courfeyrac replies immediately. “In fact, Combeferre–”

“ _Courfeyrac_.” Combeferre’s voice is a strangled whisper but, miraculously, it’s enough to make Courfeyrac shut up. Must be true love after all, Grantaire thinks vaguely. He didn’t know there was any power on Earth strong enough to make Courfeyrac shut up.

“That conversation out of the way,” Grantaire says, driving on through the empty streets. Looks like everyone else on the damned city had better sense than him and kept their asses in bed. “Yeah, no, that’s not going to be a problem. It’s just–cute couples, man. It makes my skin crawl.”

“He says that because he’s not half of a cute couple,” Courfeyrac explains cheerfully. “Don’t worry, ‘Ferre, he’ll come around soon enough. I’ve told you I’m working on it.”

“You told him you are working on it?” Grantaire asks, voice a little higher than it needs to be.

“Gulp,” Courfeyrac says. No, really. Courfeyrac actually fucking says _gulp_. The bastard doesn’t even have the grace to pretend to gulp, just half-asses it and says _gulp_ out loud instead. If he wasn’t driving, Grantaire would be throttling him. “I’m just–going to take a nap now. Yeah, that’s–naps are good, I like naps.”

“Courfeyrac–”

Courfeyrac doesn’t listen. Courfeyrac _never_ listens. He sprawls dramatically down on the backseat instead and makes a great show out of snoring loudly.

“So,” Grantaire turns to Combeferre. Two can play this game, after all. “Did you know that when he misses you the most he wears his ‘if lost, please return to Combeferre’ t-shirt?”

Courfeyrac makes a small noise of protest, but looks otherwise too intent on keeping his cover.

As it turns out, Combeferre did not know. Nor did he know all the other ridiculous things Courfeyrac does when he misses him, such as actually fucking eating ice-cream when it’s raining outside and he’s listening to Adele.

Because he’s an asshole, Grantaire tells him.

—

He ends up dropping Courfeyrac off at Combeferre’s. It’s the most practical option, since there’s probably going to be gross displays of affection all over the place and apparently Combeferre’s roommate couldn’t be assed to catch his plane on time, so no one actually has to be subjected to it.

He doesn’t see Courfeyrac for two days straight.

On the third day, he continues to not see Courfeyrac, but when he gets to the kitchen in the morning there’s a half-naked blond scowling at his coffee machine as if it’s the single cause of every problem in the Universe..

“Um,” Grantaire says.

The blond turns around, and Grantaire immediately knows who it is. _Enjolras_. The pictures don’t do him justice, even when his hair is a mess and he’s rubbing sleep from his eyes. The lack of a shirt definitely helps. As does the lack of pants. As does the lack of anything that’s not a pair of boxers that quite literally looked painted on. _Um_ indeed. “Did I order from Wet Dreams ‘R Us?” Grantaire asks, tilting his head to the side. “On the one hand, it seems like the sort of thing I’d do. On the other, it seems like the sort of thing I’d remember doing. On the other other hand, do Wet Dreams ‘R Us make home deliveries? On the other other other hand, is there even a Wet Dreams ‘R Us?”

He reaches for his phone in his back pocket and googles it, letting out a sad sigh when it turns out there’s no Wet Dreams ‘R Us. More’s the pity, that’s definitely a market opportunity to explore.

The blond blinks at him, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted. It looks like he hasn’t processed a single thing Grantaire’s just said. Not a morning person, then. Oh, Grantaire’s going to be having so much more fun with this than he should.  

“Can you–” Enjolras says, waving his hand around in a gesture that could literally mean anything at all.

“You’re going to have to use your words, Apollo.” The nickname seems fitting, somehow. If Apollo ever just shamble around the kitchen in the morning blinking at his acolytes until they gave him his caffeine fix.

“I–coffee?” Enjolras asks, tentatively.

Almost good enough. Grantaire would give him a golden star for trying, if Enjolras wasn’t wearing just his underwear and had anywhere to put said star. Perhaps his hair? That’d look cute. And something Grantaire should probably get pictures of for future blackmail purposes? Always get pictures for blackmail purposes. It’s common fucking sense.

“Coffee?” Enjolras says again, voice a little more insistent.

If Grantaire pushes him enough, Enjolras might actually bite him, and won’t that be a story to tell Courfeyrac?

“Please?”

The please does it, as Grantaire was afraid it might. Fucking good-looking assholes with manners.

“Fine, keep your pants on. Or, well–” He shrugs, leering a little, before stepping around Enjolras so he can flick the switch on the back of the coffee machine.

Enjolras lets out a surprised noise. “So that’s–”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Grantaire says cheerfully. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you all about light switches next. You won’t believe the things you can do with just a flick of your wrist.”

Enjolras plops himself down onto the nearest chair, ignoring the innuendo completely and resting his elbows on the table and his face on his hands. It is a pose Grantaire has come to associate with someone who absolutely refuses to accept a reality in which they have to be out of bed and functioning.

Taking some pity on the guy, he pours him a cup filled to the brim with coffee the moment the machine’s done heating, before setting it carefully in front of Enjolras. “Carefully, that’s hot.”

Enjolras ignores that completely, just gropes around for the cup blindly and practically inhales half of it.

“Does your throat have superpowers or something?” Grantaire asks curiously. “There could be a future for you in porn.”

“What.” Enjolras looks up at him, looking a lot more awake now. “What are you even talking about? Who–Oh. _Grantaire_. Courf’s roommate.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows practically disappear into his hairline. “Who did you think I was?”

“Courfeyrac?” Enjolras volunteers. “Sorry, it’s probably the jet lag.”

Grantaire looks at the kitchen clock. 10AM in Paris. 9AM in Lisbon.

“Probably not the jet lag,” Enjolras amends, following his line of sight. “I’m just–not a morning person. Is there cereal?”

“On top of the fridge. Help yourself. Have you gotten kicked out of your own apartment?” Grantaire asks with some sympathy.

“It seemed–wise. To spend some time away from Combeferre and Courfeyrac while they–ah. Get reacquainted.” The tips of his years go pink. “Courfeyrac gave me his key. I hope that’s okay?”

Enjolras’ a lot more talkative now that’s had his morning coffee. Granted, his hair is still a mess and he’s still practically naked, and it’s not like Grantaire can’t complain much about the trauma of having a talkative supermodel drinking his coffee in a very nice state of undress.

“It’s better than being around Courfeyrac and Combeferre right now,” Grantaire says evenly, and Enjolras nods so fast he almost spills coffee all over himself.

“There was singing,” he says darkly, with all the air of a man who has seen all the horrors of the world right in his living room and now has to live with the memory. “Not from Combeferre, thank God, but. Actual singing. From Courfeyrac. Actual Disney song serenades. I flew in last night right in time to walk in on Courfeyrac singing _I Won’t Say I’m In love_ at himself.  That’s a little much at 5AM.”

“That’s a little much regardless of the hour.”

Enjolras nods again, taking another sip of his coffee. They fall into an easy silence after that, Grantaire pouring himself a cup of coffee as he’d meant to do when he’d made his way towards the kitchen, as Enjolras half-shambles around making himself a bowl of cereal.

One moment, everything is fine. And then Enjolras pours the milk before the cereal.

“Did you just–did you really pour the milk before the cereal?” Grantaire asks, disbelief obvious in his voice. “You come into my kitchen and you do that. In front of me. What have I ever done to you. What have my milk and cereal ever done to you?”

Enjolras doesn’t reply, just flashes him a truly unimpressed look and dumps what remained of his coffee all over his cereal. Grantaire lets out a small whimper.

“Who taught you how to eat?” Grantaire asks, absolutely horrified.

Enjolras shrugs as he sits down again, “It’s a perfectly fine way to drink your coffee.”

“If by perfectly fine you mean a way to ruin both your coffee and your cereal. Well done, really.”

“Efficient, though,” Enjolras says cheerfully, in a way that reminds him a little too much of Courfeyrac.

“You know, you can be scarily like Courfeyrac sometimes. I didn’t think you’d be, because the way he talks about you is like–I don’t know, man. I mean, it’s clear he loves you, but you’re, like, Liberty leading the people to him.”

“What does that even mean?” Enjolras asks around a mouthful of cereal.

“How should I know? He’s the one who talks about you like that. And now here you are, eating my cereal and profaning my coffee. Not what I was expecting. Liberty leading the people wouldn’t profane other people’s coffee.”

“Maybe I’m Liberty leading the people but, like, with hidden depths?”

“You’re wearing skin tight white boxers,” Grantaire points out. “None of your depths are hidden.”

Enjolras sends a well-aimed kick at Grantaire’s ankle. Considering he’s barefoot, it’s not as effective as he probably wants it to be though he gets a star for initiative.

Grantaire probably deserved that, anyway.

“Well, you’re exactly like Courfeyrac said you’d be,” Enjolras says primly. “I heard a lot about you. Courfeyrac has–theories.”

Grantaire’s ears perk up. “What kind of theories?”

Enjolras flushes. “It’s–um.” He waves a hand. “Courfeyrac is–what I meant to say is, he’s trying to. Er.”

Grantaire will never admit it out loud, and he will absolutely not be saying it anywhere within Courfeyrac’s hearing, but the blushing and stammering is way cuter than it has any right to be, this early in the morning, even if it’s coming from someone who is clearly incapable of giving his coffee the love and respect it deserves.

Honestly, was he raised in a caffeine-less barn?

“Let me guess,” he says, deciding to put Enjolras out of his misery. “He’s trying to matchmake us.”

Enjolras’ eyes widen. They are very blue. Come to think of it, Enjolras might actually give Courfeyrac a run for his money when it comes to the ridiculous, huge anime eyes. Grantaire sends up a silent prayer that Enjolras hasn’t picked up on the finer points of Courfeyrac’s lip wobble, because dealing with Courfeyrac on a daily basis is bad enough.

“Um,” he says, and the flush only grows. Grantaire is increasingly endeared. “Yeah, that–he did say that. And also something about hurting me if I hurt you? Which was–I hadn’t even _met_ you? And he seemed way too cheerful about that?”

On the one hand, Grantaire is more touched than he can quite know how to say that Courfeyrac would threaten one of his lifelong best friends for his sake, even if his reasoning is completely absurd. On the other hand, it’s a perfect payback opportunity. Grantaire never passes up a payback opportunity, not even on his friends. _Especially_ not on his friends.

“Enjolras, my good man,” Grantaire says, very seriously, “how would you like to prove Courfeyrac wrong?”

Enjolras blinks. “What do you mean?”

“He thinks we’re going to fall in love,” Grantaire explains. “Let’s _not_ fall in love.”

“I don’t think that’s something you can quite control, Grantaire.”

“Well, are you thinking about falling in love with me right now?”

“No?” Enjolras tries. “But then again I’m not  thinking about much of anything right now besides how to get more coffee out of you, so–”

“Exactly,” Grantaire says cheerfully. “It’s the perfect plan.”

Enjolras snorts. “I really don’t think _let’s not fall in love with each other_ counts as any plan whatsoever, let alone a perfect one.”

“That’s the brilliance of it all.”

“You’re very liberal with your use of the word ‘brilliance’,” Enjolras says dryly. Grantaire magnanimously resists the urge to throw cereal at his hair.

“Stop being a pain in the ass,” Grantaire says, waving a hand dismissively. “Do you solemnly swear not to fall in love with me?”

“I–” Enjolras starts. “Isn’t it a little too early to get started with the Harry Potter references?”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, sounding deeply disapproving. “It’s _never_ too early to get started with Harry Potter references.” What kind of monster thinks it can ever be too early for Harry Potter references? It’s as good a proof as any that Courfeyrac is totally and completely wrong about the two of them as much as getting along.

“Will you give me more coffee if I do?”

“Sure.”

“Then I do solemnly swear not to fall in love with you,” Enjolras says, very seriously.

Grantaire nods, and pours him another cup of coffee. He doesn’t even whimper when Enjolras dumps it over a fresh bowl of cereal.

\---


	2. Chapter 2

“No no no no,” Courfeyrac is saying into his phone. “No, dude, Fifty Shades of Gray is a classic but like in a–in the same way Twilight is a classic vampire novel. Or, like, the way Scary movie is a classic horror movie–well, with less self-awareness. Or, like, in the way Gles is a classic TV show.” He pauses, frowning at his phone. “Yes, Marius, I understand you like Glee, but–”

He mouths a silent _help me_ at Grantaire. He’s been back home for a few days, swooning onto whatever flat surface he can find and writing Combeferre’s name on all his notebooks whenever he doesn’t have to be at school. It’s nauseating.

Grantaire is very happy for him. Blame his next words on the kindness of his heart.

“SPIDER!” Grantaire shouts, and it’s worth it just to see Courfeyrac jump on the couch, his phone falling down to the floor.

“You are such a loser, oh my God,” Grantaire laughs.

“I hate you,” Courfeyrac says, with much feeling. “But thank you anyway. Marius is a little too–excitable sometimes.” That’s the most hilarious thing he’s ever heard coming out of Courfeyrac’s mouth. It’s like the ocean whining about a glass of water being a little too wet. “I had to explain that Fifty Shades was not a good guiding manual as to how to approach BDSM sex.”

“Marius wants to approach BDSM sex?”

“I think his interest is mostly theoretical,” Courfeyrac confides before paling considerably. “Well, I _hope_ his interest is mainly theoretical. For Cosette’s sake. Those are not the books he should be reading. He’s too young and impressionable.”

“He’s your age,” Grantaire reminds him. That’s one year older than him. “And you’re a terrible influence. You’ve no one to blame but yourself for this. Didn’t you give him the books in the first place?” He knows Courfeyrac far too well to believe otherwise.

“Yes, but I was never that impressionable. I didn’t know _he_ was that impressionable,” Courfeyrac whines. “I just wanted to–the books are hilarious, man, if you can ignore how creepy they are. I just wanted to see him blush.”

“And now you might have created a monster,” Grantaire points out. “You do seem to repeatedly overestimate the ridiculous consequences of your equally ridiculous actions. Get your feet out of my couch, by the way.”

“Ah, but you like my ridiculous actions.” Courfeyrac bats his eyelashes in the most ridiculous way possible, though he does sit down properly on the couch anyway. Grantaire takes that as a victory. “Speaking of–how’s my darling Enjolras? Have you two met? Did you like meeting him? Did you like his penchant for not wearing clothes in the morning? Because I feel like you should like his penchant for not wearing clothes in the morning.”

Grantaire did like Enjolras’ penchant for not wearing clothes in the morning. He sincerely doubts anyone with eyes wouldn’t like Enjolras’ penchant for not wearing clothes in the morning. “I did like his penchant for not wearing clothes in the morning,” he admits, partially because it’s true, partially because he just can’t pass up an opportunity to fuck with Courfeyrac. “He’s–not bad. Not bad at all. What’s he like?” he asks, trying to sound like someone who’s trying to sound casual. Casualception, if you would.

“Why?” Courfeyrac asks, fanning himself dramatically. (It’s not surprising–Courfeyrac does everything dramatically.) “Do you like him?”

Grantaire shrugs, giving him a bashful look. “He’s alright. What’s he like? Does he, er–what’s his type?”

Perfectly acted, perfectly timed. And to think Courfeyrac is the drama student. This, right here, is better than any performance Courfeyrac ever gave, Grantaire is certain.

“Muse,” Courfeyrac says after a beat.

“You mean like the Greek muses? Because I can do a lot of things, but I really hate gladiator sandals, so that’s not–”

“The band, you idiot.” Courfeyrac punctuates the words with a roll of his eyes. “And technically the Romans were the one with the gladiator sandals.”

“Before or after Muse sold out?” Grantaire asks, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“Does it really matter–”

“Courfeyrac.”

“His favorite album is _The Resistance_.”

Grantaire shudders.”A simple _after_ would’ve sufficed.” He pauses. “He likes Coldplay, doesn’t he?”

How hard Courfeyrac works not to meet his eyes is all the answer he needs.

It’s going to be so easy not to fall in love with Enjolras.

—

The next time he sees Enjolras, he’s the one who’s naked.

It only happens because of the System. It might not be a very good System, but it has stuck with him throughout the years, and it both gets the job done _and_ saves his clothes, so he has no intention to stop using it, even if means people who do not know how to knock occasionally get an eyeful they weren’t really expecting.

Except Enjolras did knock, he supposes. But that’s besides the point when assigning blame and Grantaire is absolutely determined to blame Enjolras. And also Courfeyrac, but when is he not determined to blame Courfeyrac?.

He’s alone in his apartment when it happens, Courfeyrac off being nauseating with Combeferre somewhere, and the morning light is hitting just right across his bedroom wall and it’s one of those moments where he absolutely _has_ to paint, even if he doesn’t knows what it is, exactly, that he’ll be painting. So he strips down to nothing–because it’s the only way not to get paint all over his clothes, really, rather than whatever new age hippy bullshit Courfeyrac likes to say Grantaire does it for–boots up his laptop, plugs in the absolutely loudest speakers money could buy–courtesy of Courfeyrac betting that he could drink Grantaire under the table _and_ beat him in a game of Limbo afterwards –and presses play on something with a bassline that makes him start trashing hotel rooms.

That is the System, and that is a System that works.

Sort of.

He’s working on something big this time, the canvas almost as wide as the bedroom wall it’s pinned to, and he’s never been a particularly tidy person. There are clothes all over the floor, along with books and shoes. He doesn’t stay still long, his body moving to the rhythm of the song, Grantaire singing at the top of his lungs even as he paints, and the floor underneath him vibrates with the force of the sound waves exploding from his speakers. He trips over his own feet a few times, laughingly goes stumbling against the painting, gets a thick swipe of bright pink and blue from his thigh to his waist for all his troubles, half wrapped around his ass.

He laughs as he paints and he paints as he sings, and his room is a mess and there is paint on his legs and in his chest and even a purple droplet down on his foot and blue fingertip marks all over his hair and _he_ is a mess, and he has no idea what this painting is even supposed to be and he couldn’t give less of a fuck if he tried.

Which is probably why it takes him so long to realize that something has changed, that there’s a breeze in the air that shouldn’t be there, that he can feel pinpricks on the back of his head that should not be there, not unless–

“Courfeyrac, so help me God–” he tries to say, the words lost in the explosive beat of the song, though it hardly matters since Courfeyrac is not the one standing there, gaping wide-eyed at Grantaire.

So Enjolras’ eyes _could_ get even wider.

Grantaire drops the brush in surprise, lets out a long string of curses when it lands right on top of his favorite Converse. He bends down to pick it up and cards a hand through his hair, coloring it red this time.

Enjolras opens his mouth, says words Grantaire can’t hear over the loud thunder of the speakers. He still hasn’t looked away from Grantaire.

Grantaire deserves an award for not letting his eyes flick down to Enjolras’ pants, see if they’re tighter than they should be. Maybe a medal. Something for good behaviour. Maybe a small island, he’s always wanted one of those.

Enjolras speaks again.

Grantaire bends down towards his laptop, turns the music off with a click.

“Um,” Enjolras says, eloquently.

“You were saying?” Grantaire asks conversationally, picking up his discarded underwear from the top of the bed and tugging it on.

Enjolras’ hands twitch at his sides. “Your neighbours are going to axe murder you.”

“As opposed to the other, non-axe ways they could murder me?” Grantaire asks. “I’m doing them a public service. Where else could  they get such a high quality music education for free?”

“I don’t think they’ll agree,” Enjolras replies, and his voice sounds a little breathier than usual. “Are you–hm. Can you put some pants on, maybe?”

Grantaire shouldn’t like the breathlessness in his voice as much as he does.

“And get paint all over them? That’d defeat the purpose. Did you want something?”

Enjolras’ eyes stay fixed on his face. It seems to take him a lot of effort to achieve that.

“Could you turn it down? I was trying to read.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows move up of their own accord. “Can’t you read in your apartment?”

“Courfeyrac is baking.”

Grantaire pales, a shiver of fear travelling down his spine. “Last time Courfeyrac tried to cook he set my curtains on fire,” he remembers. “You’re a smart man. Smarter than me. I actually stayed to help the last time he tried to cook. It was supposed to be a red velvet cake. It turned out green and it bounced when you threw it at the wall. He might’ve discovered the receipt for flubber, come to think of it.”

Enjolras laughs at that, the asshole. “To be fair,” he says lightly, though his hands remain tense at his sides, “I’ve had most of my life to get used to Courfeyrac’s attempts at cooking. He hasn’t gotten any better than when he was eight and tried to microwave his socks. That might’ve actually been his most successful attempt at cooking, to be honest.”

Now Grantaire’s the one laughing, tossing back his head, exposing his yellow-streaked throat.

Enjolras looks far too clean for his own good. Grantaire gets a terrible idea.

“Why are you reading?” he asks.

Enjolras scoffs. “Did you seriously just ask me why–”

“I’m not asking why people read in general.” Grantaire rolls his eyes, waves his hand dismissively. “I’m asking why you are reading right now, at this very moment, in my living room. Well, trying to. School just started, didn’t it? Do you have homework already?”

“No.” Enjolras shrugs. “I had nothing else to do. Why?”

“Wonderful,” Grantaire says, taking a step closer to Enjolras. “Take off your shirt.”

“Come again?”

“You heard me. Take off your shirt.”

“If you’re propositioning me–”

“I’m not propositioning you.” Yet, at least. The day is young, and Grantaire has a thing for stunningly beautiful men. It’s not like Courfeyrac has to know about it. “You’re helping me paint.”

Enjolras looks like Grantaire just told him they’re performing at the Grammys as an accordion playing duo.

“You cannot possibly be serious. I know nothing about painting and–”

“You’re not supposed to know about painting, you’re supposed to have fun.”

“Have you lost your–”

“Apollo,” Grantaire says, very calmly, very rationally, “you can’t read if I don’t turn down the music. If I turn down the music I can’t paint. If I can’t paint, I’ll need to distract myself otherwise. If you’re reading and I have nothing to do, I’m going to go annoy you and you won’t be able to read at all. You’re not going to be reading anyway. QED. So, you can either sit around on the couch sulking until Courfeyrac is done trying to explode your apartment, or you can actually have fun. Worst case scenario you’ll hate it, but you’d hate being distracted while trying to read even more. At least this way you’ll try something new. So, what is it? Do you want to sulk or do you want to paint?”

Enjolras’ lips twitch.

“What is it?” prods Grantaire.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Take your time, really, it’s not like the paint is drying or anything–”

“I’ll get my clothes dirty,” he says weakly.

Grantaire shrugs. “Steal something of Courfeyrac’s. He’s the reason you’re currently being denied political asylum on my couch.”

“Can I pick the music?” Enjolras asks hopefully.

He’s cute. He’s so cute. He’s terribly naive, but still so cute. “No,” Grantaire says, pretending to consider it. He’s not subjecting himself to Coldplay, no matter how cute Enjolras is. “But I’ll tell you all about a little band I like to call Rage Against the Machine.”

“Why do you like to call them that?” Enjolras frowns.

“Because that’s their name.”

“I really don’t understand you sometimes.”

Grantaire shrugs. “That’s okay, I really don’t understand myself sometimes, either. Go get Courfeyrac’s favorite pants now. Off you go.”

He does.

They end up ruining Courfeyrac’s favorite pants, Courfeyrac’s favorite shirt, and Grantaire’s painting. Grantaire counts it as a good day.

—

“Why does everyone think you can’t cook?” Combeferre asks, a slice of lemon cake well on its way to demolished right in front of him.

“Because I’ve worked very hard to keep it that way,” Courfeyrac says smugly. The cake is delicious, just enough lemon that you can feel the flavor exploding on the tip of your tongue and spreading all over your body, moist and fluffy and the second best thing that’s ever been in Courfeyrac’s mouth (yes, Combeferre’s cock is number one, thank you for asking). There aren’t many perfect things in the world–Courfeyrac’s hair, the Spice Girls’ Spiceworld album, pizza, Cristiano Ronaldo’s abs–but this cake is definitely on the list. “Have you met our friends? I’d have to feed everyone all the time. I can’t cook and be a matchmaking mastermind at the same time. I’m the hero they need, not the one they deserve.”

Combeferre laughs and pulls him across the table for a kiss. Neither notices the cake sitting forgotten between them

—

The next time he sees Enjolras, it’s later that day at a meeting of Les Amis de L’ABC–or whatever it is they call themselves–and it all goes to Hell. So far Grantaire’s spent every single meeting doodling everyone there, and trying his best to ignore every word falling out of their mouths. It’s not like they’re not well-intentioned–they’re very well-intentioned–but it’s more of the whole _shout at the world until it gets fixed_ sort of thing, and Grantaire has very little patience for that.

He’s been told since the very first meeting Courfeyrac forced him to attend that they don’t have a leader, and while they might want to believe that’s true, it’s clear they do have a leader the moment Enjolras walks through the door and everyone starts orbiting around him. It’s not as pleasant as last two time they met, if only because everyone’s wearing actual clothes now and Grantaire was growing increasingly fond of nakedness concerning Enjolras. And those white boxers he’d had on the first time. He is ever so fond of the white boxers he’d had on the first time.

At least, it’s not all bad. His taste in pants certainly seems to run on the unbearably tight side of things, and if he has to be wearing clothes at all, Grantaire supposes it’s a good thing that red, military style jacket fits him the way it does.

_–Enjolras, with nothing on but that jacket, pinning him down on the table and fucking him until Grantaire comes screaming his name–_

Oh, fucking Hell. This is going to be so much harder if Grantaire is going to be thinking about Enjolras fucking him. Sometimes, he really hates Courfeyrac.

There is a small streak of blue paint on the back of Enjolras’ neck, something he probably didn’t notice when he tried to shower away the paint, but Grantaire catches sight of it when Enjolras turns to say something to Marius, the dark blue striking against his skin, a mark that Grantaire was there, and he can’t look away from it, can’t think or focus on anything else.

And then Enjolras starts talking.

Grantaire’d been doodling Bahorel fighting a sword-wielding bear, for no good reason other than to see the smile it’d bring to his face. Now, he simply turns the page, starts drawing Enjolras instead, hand moving furiously against the page. It’s torture not to draw him, it’s impossible to look away from him. It’s not how he looks, though it helps. He is passion, he is charm, he is certainty, he is stubbornness personified. He’s wrong, of course, but he looks like he belongs at a head of an army, shouting commands and having them obeyed without question, and Grantaire’s type is usually bad for him, but he could make an exception just this once.

Grantaire might be a little bit fucked.

He hates Courfeyrac so much.

He does what he does whenever he feels backed into a corner he doesn’t particularly want to be backed into. It’s a terrible idea, he knows it’s a terrible idea. It doesn’t stop him from going through with it.

“Here’s what I don’t get,” he drawls as he tips back his chair, interrupting Enjolras’ tirade against the latest tax laws. “Do you lot even know what you’re fighting for?”

Everyone’s eyes turn away from Enjolras, stare right at him. Enjolras merely blinks at him.

“Do you have anything you want to–”

“It’s tax laws this week. Last week it was–what, abortion? The week before that it was racism. There was sexism before that. What’s it going to be next week? Save the whales? Save the orphans? Feed the puppies? Save the Pokemon, justice for Sansa Stark?”

“I’m pretty sure no one has any strong feelings about Pokemon,” Enjolras starts. “And as for everything else–”

Grantaire groans. “You’re not going to change the world by talking about it,” he says. “The world doesn’t care. People don’t care about things that don’t affect them. People care about themselves. No one gives a fuck about the orphans, no one gives a fuck about laws that benefit them, no matter how much they hurt everyone else. At the end of the day, you can’t change the world because, ultimately, you cannot change people. People are people, and what people are is awful.

“But fine, fine, let’s assume for a moment you could change the world. Now, this is bullshit, of course, but let’s assume just for a moment you could. So what? Shouting about something different every other week accomplishes nothing, other than making a lot more noise than you probably should. It’s a lost cause anyway, but you’re spreading yourselves too thin regardless. You’ll accomplish nothing.

”Unless that’s the point,” he says thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s what this is about. You’re mad at everything, so you get all the points for trying, but because you’re being pulled in so many different directions no one can really hold it against you when you inevitably fail and fall flat on your ass. It’s a failsafe plan when you look at it like that, really. Everyone gets to pat themselves on the back for a well-done job and go on with their day. Either that or it’s a complete waste of your time and everyone else’s. I don’t know what’s the worst option right now.”

The silence is deafening. Everyone is staring at him. For the moment, Grantaire doesn’t care. Enjolras looks as if he’s been slapped, his entire body tense, a vein in his neck twitching uncomfortably. Grantaire gets the feeling this isn’t the sort of thing that happens often, if at all. People don’t talk back to Enjolras, people don’t question his plans, people don’t interrupt him, people don’t call him out on his bullshit.

Just as well, he can consider this his second public service duty for the day.

He flips his sketchbook closed, his drawing of Enjolras’ safely inside and tosses some money down on the table to pay for his beer. When he leaves, no one tries to stop him.

—

“Phase One of my plan is underway,” Courfeyrac tells Combeferre later that night.

“Huh?” Combeferre snuggles a little closer to Courfeyrac, carding his fingers absentmindedly through his boyfriend’s hair.

“Enjolras and Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says, tilting his head closer to Combeferre’s hands. “Your hands are really–God, you have no idea how good that feels.”

“What about Enjolras and Grantaire?” Combeferre’s hand slows done for a moment, just long enough for him to let out a long suffering sigh and for Courfeyrac to offer him a spectacular pout. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, nothing at all,” Courfeyrac says cheerfully. “They’re doing it all themselves.”

“By doing it all themselves do you mean that Grantaire is pushing Enjolras into a homicidal rage? Because I’m not sure what that’s going to accomplish.”

Combeferre’s cute. Combeferre’s so cute Courfeyrac regularly has to stuff his face into the pillow just so he doesn’t go shouting at the world about how cute his boyfriend is. It’s even cute how little he knows his best friend sometimes. Courfeyrac pets his cheek. “You’re so cute,” he says, around a yawn. “So, so cute.”

Five minutes later, when he falls asleep, he dreams of nothing but mischief.

—

“You are such an asshole.”

Grantaire rolls over on the couch and pulls a pillow over his head, trying to ignore Courfeyrac and make him go away. It doesn’t work. It never works. Courfeyrac goes away when he’s decided he wants to go away and not a moment too soon. Sometimes, Grantaire loves him for it. Other times, he wants to kick him in the shins.

Now, Courfeyrac only swats at his feet, making him move them out of the way so there’s room for him on the couch. “Really such a fucking huge asshole,” he says disapprovingly, poking the back of Grantaire’s leg.

There goes Grantaire’s nap. He lets out a loud groan, rolling over and unceremoniously shoving his feet at Courfeyrac’s legs. “You just care because of your stupid bet,” Grantaire accuses, poking with his big toe.

“No, I care because I like you and you were an asshole.”

“I was _not_ an asshole.” It’s a lie. Even before the words have left his mouth he knows it’s a lie. There’s making a point and stating your mind–and he does stand by most of what he said–and then there’s being an asshole, and he knows perfectly well he was an asshole. He just wants to pretend a little while longer that he wasn’t.

“Yes, you were,” Courfeyrac says gently. “Or are you going to say you really believe everything you said?”

“Yes?”

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes.“Even the bits about how we’re just doing this to feel good about ourselves?”

Grantaire looks away, can’t meet Courfeyrac’s eyes anymore.

“Thought so,” Courfeyrac says, petting his ankle. “Up you go, then. Apologize to Enjolras. Get the next round at the Cafe and no one will care, but apologize to Enjolras personally. He was sort of the one you went off on.”

There are times Grantaire really hates Courfeyrac, but never more so than when he’s right. Still, he can’t help but push a little. “You just want me to apologize to Enjolras personally because of the stupid bet.”

“No, if it was because of the stupid bet I’d have locked you both in a closet and let you work it out. Well, fuck it out,” he amends. He doesn’t even have the grace to wobble his lip this time so Grantaire can pretend he’s doing this for any reason other than it being the right thing to do. “I want you to apologize to Enjolras because you’re my roommate and he’s my best friend and my boyfriend’s roommate and my boyfriend’s best friend and I don’t want things to be weird.”

Grantaire really, really hates it when Courfeyrac is right.

—

“Would you really have locked them both in a closet?” Combeferre asks Courfeyrac later, when they’re both alone.

“No, of course not. That lacks finesse, even by my standards. And it wouldn’t have worked. They’d know I was behind it. Give me a little time. Trust the process.”

“So you lied?”

“Is there a point to this?”

“Only that you’re kind of evil sometimes.”

Courfeyrac smirks. “So?”

“It’s kind of hot.”

“Then maybe you should do something about it.”

He does.

Courfeyrac is very pleased.

—

Grantaire is doing the most ungrantairian thing possible and apologizing.

Well, Grantaire was _going_ to do the most ungrantairian thing possible and apologizing, but that was before someone stole his coffeemaker. He has two possible suspects, as far as he can tell–but considering Courfeyrac likes Baby as much as he does–and that Grantaire can hear him singing Britney Spears’ greatest hits in the shower all the way from the kitchen–that leaves only Enjolras.

He will die screaming.

—

So maybe it’s not particularly fair to get Enjolras’ address out of Courfeyrac under the false pretense of apologizing, but since the asshole has stolen Baby and is almost definitely holding her for ransom–and oh God, the thought that the asshole will make him start caring about the whales before he gives her back makes Grantaire’s blood run cold–Grantaire thinks it’s justified.

Which is how he finds himself slamming his hand down into Enjolras’ door at 9AM on a Monday, rather than in class where he belongs.

He waits.

No one answer.

He slams his hand down again.

Eventually, he hears movement inside, watches the door open slowly to reveal an Enjolras who looks exactly as if he’s just crawled out of bed. An Enjolras who’s not wearing anything other than unbearably tight blue boxers. What is it with him and the unbearably tight clothes, is he afraid his skin will grown allergic to all the self-righteousness and try to jump ship in the middle of the day or something?

“Are you some kind of weird revolutionary coffeemaker stealing nudist, then?” is the first thing he asks.

“What,” Enjolras replies, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“I want Baby back,” Grantaire says through clenched teeth.

Enjolras stares at him, looking completely at a loss.

Grantaire crosses his arms over his chest, tries to look menacing.

Enjolras stares some more.

Grantaire glares.

“You are so fucking weird,” Enjolras grumbles, breaking first. Just like Grantaire suspected he would. Hell hath no fury like a Grantaire whose coffee machine has been stolen.

“Are you going to let me in or should we glare at each other on the doorway some more?”

Not that Enjolras is glaring at him. Or doing much of anything besides trying to stand up. The guy definitely doesn’t look like he’s anything close to a morning person. Which is probably why he blinks some more at Grantaire, before simply stepping aside to let him through.

Rookie mistake, that.

“Where is my coffee machine?” Grantaire demands.

Enjolras shrugs, rubs the back of his neck. “You are so fucking loud,” he whines, shambling towards the kitchen, probably looking for his own coffee machine. His own coffee machine that no asshole with tight pants and a thousand different causes has any right to try to steal.

He is _so_ dead.

“Do you want a cup?” Enjolras offers.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Averting his eyes when Enjolras turns around to make himself a cup of coffee isn’t as easy as Grantaire would like, though it has to be done. He’s far too distracting in those boxers. (And by _he_ , Grantaire means his frankly spectacular ass.)

“Look, can we just–” Grantaire starts.

He’s momentarily distracted by a mug filled with coffee appearing in front of his face. “Drink,” Enjolras orders.

“But I don’t–”

“ _Drink_.”

Grantaire takes a tentative sip. “If this is your way of apologizing–”

“My way of apologizing? _My_ way of apologizing?”

There it is, that cute vein in his neck is twitching again.

“Well, I mean–”

“Sit.” That same authoritative, confident sound of voice that in any other circumstances would go straight to Grantaire’s cock. Which isn’t to say that it doesn’t go straight to Grantaire’s cock now. It’s almost as if the asshole knows exactly what he’s doing to Grantaire. Maybe sitting down isn’t such a bad idea after all.

“Fine,” he says. “But only because you gave me coffee.”

Of course, that only serves to remind him of Baby.

“Where. Is. Baby.”

Enjolras takes his time sitting down and chugs down about half of his coffee. He has a problem, he really does.

“She went to live on a farm?” Enjolras tries. “Maybe she met someone else? Couldn’t really blame her if she did,” he mumbles under his breath.

“Very funny, asshole. Where is Baby.”

“I’m.” Enjolras runs a hand through his hair, makes it even messier than before. Grantaire gets the suicidal urge to offer a hand. “I have literally no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You stole my coffee machine,” Grantaire snaps.

“Um.” Enjolras tilts his head to the side, confusion written clearly across every line of his face. Either the guy is the best actor on the planet–and he’s not, he can’t be, because _Grantaire_ is the best actor on the planet–or he has no idea what’s going on.

Huh.

Grantaire was not expecting that.

“You didn’t take Baby?”

“Why did you name your coffeemaker? Who _names_ their coffeemaker? That’s not normal. What else have you named?”

“Your face?”

“What?”

Grantaire waves a hand. “Nevermind.”

“So, so weird,” Enjolras says, watching Grantaire over the rim of his mug. “So you’re not here to apologize?”

Grantaire ignores that completely. “But if you didn’t steal things who did?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras replies sarcastically. “If only you lived with someone who likes to annoy people early in the morning.”

“Courfeyrac? But he was in the shower this morning.”

“Because Courfeyrac _wouldn’t_ take a coffeemaker into a bathroom?”

Grantaire considers this. Considers it again. Gets his phone from out of his pocket. Calls Courfeyrac.

“Did you shower with Baby.”

“Of course not,” Courfeyrac says. “I’d have gotten electrocuted. I just took her into the bathroom with me and set her down on the toilet. I don’t like being in the bathroom alone.”

Grantaire hangs up.

“I would very much appreciate it,” he tells Enjolras, very seriously. “If you were to thump me over the head with a frying pan.”

He doesn’t even get a snort for all his troubles. “So not only did you not come here to apologize for being an asshole,” Enjolras says, an expression of complete distaste on his face, ”you also woke me up and accused me of stealing your coffemaker.”

How weird, to be looked at and found to be completely lacking in anything of value by someone who can’t even work pants in the morning. “Can you put some pants on, please?” Grantaire asks. “You have no idea what it’s like to be disdained by someone in their underwear. Especially when their underwear is so tight.”

“What does the tightness of my underwear have to do with anything?” Enjolras asks, not unwisely.

Of course he’d be this difficult. Grantaire can’t even pretend to be surprised. He’s got _difficult_ written all over him. Grantaire should know, he’s seeing a whole lot of him right now.

“Nevermind that, I just–” He’s going to make Grantaire say it, isn’t he? He’s going to sit there with his perfect abs and his perfect ass, with his perfectly tight underwear, judging Grantaire with those perfect lips pursed and Grantaire is going to have to do it, going to have to put one word after another and apologize for being an asshole, even though he knows it’s a lost cause, even though he knows it’s only a matter of time until this happens again, because he’s an asshole even at the best of times, but Enjolras gets under his skin in a way that makes him wildly uncomfortable, makes him want to lash out at the world and everyone in it before the world has the chance to hurt him.

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen silent, staring down at his coffee and waiting for it to swallow him whole so he doesn’t have to have this conversation, until Enjolras clears his throat loudly, one foot tapping against his chair in irritation.

“Look,” Grantaire tries. “I’m not going to say I’m never an asshole and that I have no idea why that happened, because that’s bullshit. And I’m not going to say I don’t like arguing with people, because I love arguing with people, but I’m not–I don’t like lashing out at people who don’t deserve being lashed out at.

“And honestly, I don’t know you. I don’t know anything about you, other than your taste in underwear and that you think The Resistance is a good album, or the fact that you’re Courfeyrac’s best friend, which is really a point in my book, even if the asshole did take a shower with Baby. Even if that isn’t the weirdest thing he’s ever done and there’s bound to be more weirdness coming next week.

“And I’m not going to say I was drunk and use it as an excuse–I mean, I _was_ drunk, but that’s no excuse. Being drunk doesn’t magically change who you are. Unless who you are is a gymnast, I guess. Kind of hard to be a gymnast when you have more vodka than blood. Well, I suppose that goes for almost everyone whose job involves even the smallest sense of balance. Does that count as who they are, though?” he asks thoughtfully, not really expecting an answer. “Because I don’t think a gymnast would consider being a gymnast is what they _are_. Though of course that leads us to a discussion of what it means to _be_ and–”

“So weird,” Enjolras is saying, looking at Grantaire like he’s from a different planet completely. “So, so weird. I’ve gotten pretty good at speaking Courfeyracian, and you’re not too different so it shouldn’t be this hard, but your mouth is moving and words are coming out, and I have no idea what you’re saying. Er. What _are_ you saying?”

Of course Enjolras doesn’t have the grace to put him out of his misery. “I’m sorry,” he says, to the vicinity of Enjolras’ knee. It’s not an easy thing to do–Enjolras’ knees are attached to Enjolras’ thighs, and they are very nice thighs.

“Sorry, that was–that made no discernible sense.” He has to say it out loud as fast as possible, has to get the fuck out of here before he does something he regrets and that’ll cost him 500 euros. “I’m not saying I agree with you, because I don’t, and I’m not saying you’re going to save the world because I don’t think the world can be saved, but I’m–but I don’t think you’re an asshole, and I don’t think you do what you just to feel good about yourself and I. Shouldn’t have said that. So. I’m sorry. For that. Not for disagreeing. I still think you’re wrong about that.”

“What about the coffee machine?”

“What about the coffee machine?” Grantaire echoes.

“You did storm in here accusing me of stealing it.”

“She has a name,” Grantaire says, sounding offended.

“ _Fine_ , you march in here in the middle of the night and accuse me of stealing Baby.” Enjolras wrinkles his nose at the word. It’s so, so endearing.

Grantaire hides his face in his hand and takes a deep breath. What is even happening with this conversation.

“In my defense, that _was_ the logical conclusion.”

“How was me stealing your coffeemaker to get back at you the logical conclusion?”

“How is Courfeyrac taking a shower with my coffeemaker the actual conclusion?”

Enjolras pauses, considers this. “You may have a point,” he admits grudgingly. “It takes a while to get used to the actual reality of having Courfeyrac as roommate.” He waves a hand, magnanimous. “Fine. You’ve apologized. That’s–that’s that.”

“That’s it?” Grantaire asks, blinking. He takes a sip of his coffee, more to have something to do with his mouth than anything else. “No yelling, no throwing things, no temper tantrums? I apologize and that’s it?”

Enjolras chews on his lip for a moment. “You might–it’s possible you had a point. Not about doing good things to make myself feel good, but–everything else. You’re right, we’re stretching ourselves too thin and end up not accomplishing nowhere near as much as we could if we just focused on one thing.”

 _You’re not going to accomplish anything_ , Grantaire wants to say, but for once he bites his tongue.

“So what is it you are going to focus on? Pokemons?” Grantaire asks hopefully.

He doesn’t miss the hint of a smile on Enjolras’ face, considers it a personal victory. “We haven’t decided yet,” Enjolras admits. “We’ve been working on a list, but–”

“Oh my god, it’s a pros and cons list, isn’t it?” Grantaire asks, sounding absolutely delighted. “I’ve never met anyone who used an actual pros and cons list. You are such a nerd. Does the rest of the world know you are such a nerd? Do _you_ know you’re too pretty to be this much of a nerd?”

Enjolras looks up sharply at that, an expression Grantaire can’t quite describe on his face. “You think I’m pretty?”

That gets a snort out of Grantaire. “I think you’re far too pretty to be asking people if they think you’re pretty. And also that you’ve been spending too much time with Courfeyrac and you just want to watch me squirm. I appreciate that you’re trying, but it’s a lost cause, really. I’m unsquirmable.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not actually a word. And even if it was, it’d make no sense in this context.”

“Yeah?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow at that.”Wanna make a pros and cons list about that, really work out the merits of unsquirming someone?”

“But how can you squirm _someone_?” Enjolras asks, because if there’s one thing about him Grantaire is learning is that he’s really a stubborn pain in the ass who doesn’t know how to let anything go. “You just squirm. You can’t squirm someone else. Or yourself. It’s not a transitive verb. You can’t use it as a transitive verb”

“Oh, go squirm yourself,” Grantaire says, with much feeling, and chucks a rolled up napkin at Enjolras’ head.  

—

“Why _were_ you in the bathroom with Grantaire’s coffeemaker?” Combeferre asks, the moment Courfeyrac hangs up. Well, the moment Grantaire hangs up on Courfeyrac. Not much difference, there.

“Because Grantaire thinking Enjolras had stolen it was the only way he would actually go over there and have a conversation with Enjolras?” He has known Combeferre for so long and has so much to teach him still.

The thought sends a thrill up his spine, makes something warm and lazily and lovely unfurl slowly on his chest. They have _so much_ time.

“But I thought he said–”

“What Grantaire says and what Grantaire does are entirely different things,” Courfeyrac explains, before standing on his tip toes to press a kiss to his boyfriend’s nose. “Really, trust me.  I know exactly what I’m doing here.”

“It will all blow up on your face,” Combeferre warns.

Courfeyrac shrugs, and kisses him again. “It won’t,” he says confidently. “It never does in the end.”

—

**Author's Note:**

> Come say [hi](http://arcoiriseglitter.tumblr.com) !


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